


Pulse

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: 1950s, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub Undertones, Fantasizing, Hotels, Insecurity, Loneliness, M/M, Memories, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29364303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: Dean’s got his clubs by the door and a list of new comic books he wants sent for.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	Pulse

Dean’s got his clubs by the door and a list of new comic books he wants sent for. Jerry’s only half-dressed and still a little groggy. He was eyeing the golf bag in a jealous sort of way and trying not to show it but now he gapes at Dean.

“Will you stop sending people for comic books? Go yourself and buy them. What are you hiding?”

“Aw, you know, Jer.”

“ _You know, Jer_ – my balls! This is something an individual, who has the inalienable right to live as a human being, with the pink slip on himself, won’t go over to a stand and buy what the fuck he wants with his own hard-earned money?”

“Can I please send out for them?”

“Okay.”

Visibly relieved, Dean hands over the list, shoulders the bag, and heads out; Jerry sticks his tongue out at the closed door and finishes pulling on his clothes. He does consider sending out for the comic books, but then figures he may as well pick them up himself. He needs a walk, some air. It’s a beautiful day, too, and Dean’s enjoying it, so Jerry might as well. He grabs breakfast downstairs, sends a wire to Patti and another to his parents, and then steps into the sun.

The job’s done quickly and with Dean’s new reading material wrapped in brown paper and tucked under his armpit, Jerry feels suddenly lonely. He keeps on walking. He passes a jewellery store and pictures himself buying some extravagance for Dean on top of the comic books. Once the money started coming in, Jerry realised that he’d never be able to buy whatever it was he really wanted, so he’d buy for everybody else instead. It works. Sometimes. And yes, it does feel good to know that Dean still cherishes the watch he bought him two years before, and he does get a little thrill when he sees one of the fellas at _Colgate_ or on the Paramount lot wearing one of a hundred cashmere sweaters he bought on a whim one afternoon then handed out like candy to whoever wanted one (and, he’s sure, whoever didn’t); but unlike buying for himself, which never scratches whatever itch he has, buying for others relieves the itching for about a week, and then he’s off again. Too much he spends on all this, but still. Dean spends too much on clubs and golf shoes and comic books, so why can’t Jerry spend too much on whatever he wants, too?

He turns around abruptly and almost knocks a little old lady off her feet. A few people spot him now, recognise his Idiot face, so he sings lustily to the woman and kisses her quick, then shoots off, cackling.

He skips down the last block, lisps a greeting to the doorman, and then drops off the comic books in Dean’s room. He runs up and down the hallway, bothering the maid, and thumping doors to greet the guests. A fella who plays trumpet in Dick’s band emerges, and through his laughter asks Jerry what he’s doing. “Getting into trouble,” Jerry says, looking at his trumpet-player’s mouth, and knowing what his own trumpet-playing mouth is good for, he brings the fella to his room, but he stiffens up so fast when Jerry puts a hand on his knee that he wants to cry, and crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue, and the fella laughs again, and Jerry hopes he won’t be sore and might just think of this as a joke he didn’t understand.

He jerks off in the bathroom once the fella leaves, and then goes back to Dean’s room to wait for him there. A part of him wants Dean to see how faithful he is, waiting, how sad he was all alone without him; another part knows Dean won’t feel at all guilty, just confused and a little frustrated with him, wanting to take a shower maybe and then read in peace. He opens the bedroom door again, meaning to go back to his own room, not to seem too needy, but then he slams it, throws open the balcony doors, and flops on to the bed, chewing his index finger, his thumb. _He’ll hate you_ , he thinks, _hate you like Dick’s trumpet-player hates you, like everybody hates you, eventually._

And he throws his arms across his eyes, feeling like he might cry, but he doesn’t. He just lets the warm breeze wash over him. With fresh air come fresh eyes. Why would Dean be mad at him for waiting? Dean thinks he sent out for comic books. Why wouldn’t he be waiting here for them? Jerry glances at the package on the dresser. He sees Dean coming back, ripping into the paper, and settling himself in the chair by the balcony doors. Jerry will bring him a beer and sit watching as he pores over Batman’s latest exploits. If he makes himself little, maybe Dean will let him in his lap.

So many _maybe_ s. Too many to think about. But he does, all of them, as time drags on.

He doesn’t sleep, just sprawls and tries to stop his heart tightening.

Then the door opens, and Jerry turns his head to see his partner – tall and tan and strong and handsome – with his golf bag in one hand and a little silver ice bucket in the other. Two bottle necks peek out, one clear, one brown.

“You been here the whole time?”

Dean’s sunglasses hide his expression, but his voice is fondly exasperated.

“No,” Jerry says, truthfully, and takes the clear glass bottle from the bucket. It’s a Coke, and Jerry gnaws at the cap.

“Stop it, monkey,” Dean says. He opens it with just his palm, then ruffles Jerry’s hair. “You behave yourself while I was gone?”

“Mm.” He pulls on the bottle and averts his eyes.

Dean chuckles and tosses the glasses on to the bed. Then he spots the package. “Ah, thanks, Jer.” He opens it with far more reserve than Jerry imagined, but the next part he got right: “Gonna take a shower.” He’s already undressing.

Jerry watches him, watches the muscles ripple under the skin of his back. He’s sweating lightly in the heat and it’s made his curls a little more unruly than normal. He takes off his shoes and pants, his watch, puts everything in a neat little pile on the dresser and then turns to Jerry, who looks away.

“Hey, Jerm.”

Jerry half looks at him.

“Okay?”

Jerry nods and tries to smile. “Are they the right ones?” he asks, gesturing to the comic books.

“Perfect,” Dean says. He comes over and tweaks his nose. Jerry tries to bite his fingers. Dean makes a claw, and Jerry copies. Then they giggle at each other. Dean turns to go, but Jerry puts his arms around his waist, nuzzles the warm centre of his partner. Dean strokes his hair. “All right?”

Jerry nods and lets him go. The bathroom door closes, and the steady pulse of the shower bleeds through the wood. Jerry thinks about leaving, going back to his room and waiting there until the show tonight. He wonders if Dean would come see what was wrong and thinks maybe he wouldn’t. He has comic books to read, and by the looks of the brown bottle in the bucket, a beer to drink. Jerry chuckles softly. How well he knows his partner. Really he should go. Dean wouldn’t want him around. _Jerry_ doesn’t really want Jerry around, but if anybody should suffer that, then let it be himself.

He stays in the room. He even takes off his shoes as though this cements the decision. He finishes the Coke and grinds the bottle, neck-down, into the ice bucket.

Dean emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist. He takes the bucket to the chair by the balcony doors, switches the towel for a fresh pair of boxer shorts, and then collects the comic books.

Jerry lies on his stomach, watching. He thinks that maybe, if he’s very quiet, he’ll be allowed to stay.

It must work, because Dean walks right past him, fetches the glasses case from the bedside drawer, and slips on the spectacles he mostly wears for reading scripts. Then he settles down with the colourful stack, opens the beer, and reads.

Jerry watches. He’s always loved watching Dean like this. Sometimes he’ll be writing something, working on the act or figuring out a contract, while Dean sits quietly in a corner and works his way through the latest Detective Comics, transfixed by whatever dastardly deeds the Joker’s got up his sleeve, and whatever ingenious method or gadget Batman might have cooked up to catch him. Dean frowns at the pages, that line of concentration knotting his brow. Sometimes his tongue pokes at the corner of his mouth. Like clockwork, his arm moves, bringing the beer to his lips and setting it down again.

Jerry’s face burns, and he shoves it into the mattress. He longs to dump the ice bucket over his head.

He risks another glance, and sees that Dean’s moved on to something called Star Spangled Comics. Three green people sprout like flowers from pots while a mean-looking fella waters one of them. Jerry’s eyes bug, but Dean’s sparkle and he sets off into whatever insanity awaits.

 _He’s so fuckin’ cute_ , Jerry thinks, and grins giggling to himself and hides his face in the crook of his elbow. He keeps it there even as he hears the chair creak and the whispers of bare feet on the carpet. Then a hand rests between his shoulder blades and rubs lightly.

“Roll over. I wanna see somethin’.”

Jerry rolls over like a good boy and lies with his arms resting languidly above his head. Dean puts a hand on his knee and Jerry knows to part his legs a little so Dean can kneel between them. He unbuckles Jerry’s belt and helps him out of his pants. Jerry watches all of this, watches his partner’s deft blunt fingers, his huge careful hands whispering the fabric away like it never existed. Then Dean positions himself neatly between his thighs and starts to rock against him.

Of all the _maybe_ s in his head, this was not one of them. For years now, despite how he feels, and despite the things that have happened between them, he doesn’t think of Dean as the sort of person who entertains _this_ sort of _maybe_.

Maybe it’s like an itch. Something small he can brush aside or ignore. Maybe he scratches it with comic books and Westerns and wild shows in theatres and nightclubs. He’s far from celibate, this Jerry knows. His growing brood back home is testament to that. Plus there are nights he does go with women. This Jerry knows, too. Mostly, though, he leaves it alone. And maybe, once it builds enough, he’s happy to take care of it himself. Jerry asked him once, when it was very late and he was feeling very brave, what he thought about. After a long pause, Dean said, “Nothin’, really, I just do it.” And then rolled over into sleep.

Dean’s hips pulse. Jerry sighs, raises up in response. Dean takes his hips, helps him find the rhythm, the pace. He doesn’t need help, but he loves Dean’s hands on him, guiding, showing wordlessly how he wants him. Of course, who needs words when you’ve got all the hard evidence you need rubbing up against you? Jerry aches, a deep pleasant throb, and can’t keep the soft moan in his throat. Dean hums and shifts and quickens just slightly. Jerry gasps, so softly he think Dean hasn’t heard him, and follows suit, watching his partner’s dark eyes.

Jerry hopes he enjoys it, on some level, or else why would he do it? With a wife, to have babies, maybe it’s different. But to relax after a show, he has his comic books. So then… what? Maybe it kills time. Maybe when he can’t shake a broad, can’t make his mouth work long enough to tell her that he wants to be alone – if he can’t think of a good excuse – he’ll get it over with. Sometimes maybe it gets to a point where taking care of it alone isn't enough. Sometimes maybe it builds and builds and builds so much he wants to be with Jerry. He doesn’t _want_ Jerry. _Wanting_ someone and wanting to _be with_ them are two very different things. Jerry feels both for Dean. The former he feels only when he thinks Dean won’t mind so much. The latter he feels all the time, mostly just a pleasant little buzz at the base of his spine. But that, wanting to be with him, it’s all mixed up in Jerry’s head. When Dean climbed on to the bed, he might have pinned Jerry to the mattress, demanded to know what he thought he was laughing at, huh? What’s so funny? And Jerry would squirm and fight to be free except not really, and Dean would hold his wrists tight enough to bruise except not really, and they’d carry on that way. He might have tackled him there, attacked him laughing and tickling, and they’d play Brothers until they were too tired and slept off the game before more of the same tonight onstage. He might have just lain on top of him fully, totally stone-faced, and Jerry would pretend to hate that and tell him to get off but wish he wouldn’t, and then maybe Dean would lie beside him, quiet and close, and ask him what he got up to while he was gone. Maybe Jerry would have told him.

And he wants all of those things. Wants to play and fight and hug and sleep and kiss and go swimming and make movies and be babied and protected and hit and sometimes, yes, to take off his clothes and come apart in Dean’s lap, maybe take him in his mouth. Only once before Dean let him do that, and when he’s scratching an itch of his own, he can think about that warm pulse against his tongue and get himself off swiftly.

Oh, God, but that wouldn’t do just now. Dean’s being so slow, so good, if Jerry lost it now he’d never know how long they could be together like this. He wishes Dean would lean down and kiss him, wishes there were no clothes between them, wishes even Dean would say something, but the steady brown eyes and soft mouth and the pulse of his hips pushes these wishes away and Jerry moans and sighs and squirms again and Dean slips his arms under the small of his back as though he might scoop him up, but it’s just to keep him still. He whispers _Shhhh_ and rolls his hips and pushes harder and Jerry breathes his name and hisses _Yessss_ and moans and then they’re rocking perfectly in sync and pushing pushing pushing.

Jerry knows there are things Dean won’t ever do. He remembers once on a trip with their wives, he and Dean went off together in the woods to hunt. Mostly just to wander and cock around. A little bored and distracted, Jerry tripped and fell dramatically at the base of a tree. (It turned out later he really had twisted his ankle on a root.) Dean was on him like a shot, checking for any obvious injury. When he was sure his little partner wasn’t badly hurt, he hunkered down beside him, and Jerry got the devil in him maybe because he climbed into Dean’s lap and tried to kiss him. Dean held him at arm’s length, asked wryly if he bumped his head. Jerry wriggled against him a few times before Dean said they oughta keep moving, see if they couldn’t shoot a deer or something.

What did he think would happen? Dean might get the devil in him too and take him then and there? He wonders now if Dean would like that, doing it in nature, real earthy. Jerry would pretend to hate it, kick up a fuss, and Dean would roll his eyes and lay down a blanket. Then he’d take off their clothes and fuck him.

Because it would have to be fucking, that Jerry knows. Maybe he’s too sentimental, but as far as he’s concerned, you can’t make love on the ground, or in a car, or in a dressing room. You fuck in those places, and fucking has its purpose, good to get the poison out. And he certainly wouldn’t say no to being held close and hard and truly fucked if Dean wanted that. Maybe he gets het up after a show, or they argue at a party and retreat to their limo, throw money at the driver to take a walk so they can work it out in their lower halves, give their brains a rest. Maybe it hurts a little but he loves Dean too much to care. But making love needs a bed. Making love needs clean sheets and gentle hands and soft words. They could make love here, he thinks, gazing up at Dean’s warm tan face, brown eyes even browner and glistening, the soft curve of his mouth not quite a smile. Jerry touches his smooth chest, his belly, hands moving too slow, too fast, like trying to walk in a dream. His fingers brush the gold medallion and Dean’s hand appears, takes his wrists and moves his arms back where they were, shaking his head fondly, firmly. No touching, then, and somehow this heightens everything, and Jerry arches, better to feel the firm hard push of his partner. Dean’s laugh makes no sound, and he takes hold of Jerry’s hips and pushes slightly harder, slightly faster, again and again, and Jerry sighs and pushes his head back and feels the full warm slant of sunlight, orange through his eyelids. Daytime’s good for making love, with the curtains kissed by the breeze coming through the balcony doors, and a bed for sleeping in each other’s arms after. Dirt and grass and leather seats are no good for that. Sand, neither. Who could do anything but fuck on a beach? A year from now Jerry will sit entranced as Burt Lancaster mounts Deborah Kerr on a beach in Hawaii and he’ll be forced to change his tune on that forever, but now he remembers once or twice taking to his knees beneath the pier at Coney Island, and anything romantic in such a place seemed impossible. His mind drifts, just for a moment, and floats back to Atlantic City, to the hot and stuffy club, to Dean’s eyes twitching and swirling for the exit, and Jerry taking his hand and leading him out into the cool night air, down to the sea, and very calmly, very firmly instructing him in a two-step, using the breakers for a rhythm. Dean picked it up so well, so fast, with the gentle aid of shushing waves, pushing and receding, pushing and receding, like his hips now, and Jerry thinks that well, maybe you _could_ make love in the sand. He’s only twenty-six years old, what does he know? Oh, God, he’d been even younger then, and more foolish, but still so stupidly in love that dancing with him there, with the moon a silver thread on the water, and the life coming back into Dean’s eyes, his face, his whole body relaxing and waking up at once, responding so well to his teaching, he could have danced for hours, could have loved him on that beach forever.

Jerry feels heat swelling in his eyes, his nose, and prays to God he doesn’t start bawling now, doesn’t ruin it, oh please don’t let him see and stop, and then Dean’s holding his waist and leaning closer and angling his hips, and with a grunt and one hard push, Jerry’s crying out for the sheer joy of it, how fresh and new and wonderful it feels despite the fact he’s lost count of how many times it’s happened. _It’s different_ , he thinks. _It’s Dean._ And even in the hot haze of this he wonders at the specifics and logistics of lovemaking, and wonders if two people can do it without one having to be inside the other. Can this count? _With sunlight and a warm breeze and a bed and two people who love each other as much as we do. We love each other and we’ve made something together, whatever it is. Why can’t this count?_ So close emotionally, physically, spiritually – all those good adverbs – they may as well be inside and outside and all over each other, breathing hard and sweating.

Dean is very close to him. He pants heavy and hot against his neck, and his hips are still moving, but slowly, circles getting smaller and softer until they’re so small and so soft Jerry can’t tell if he’s still going. He makes his arms move now. They feel too long and too heavy but he drags them up and drapes them around his partner. He hugs him weakly. Dean smells of sweat and heat and soap and spices. Jerry kisses his shoulder. He tells him he loves him. A part of him wants to say _Thank you_ but he knows Dean won’t like that. Instead, his arms stronger now, he lets one hand trail up and down Dean’s spine and puts the other on his hair and strokes. His curls are damp and mussed, a little tangled somehow.

Slowly, Dean starts to move. He braces himself on the mattress and pushes up, but Jerry holds him. It works. Dean comes back, slips an arm under him, and Jerry wishes he’d undressed him properly. Maybe Dean could only face the pants. Working on buttons and pulling off an undershirt and socks might have been too much for him. Still, Jerry wants to feel Dean’s skin on him. They’re finished now; it wouldn’t hurt.

But Dean’s moving again. Jerry whimpers without meaning to, and Dean whispers, “I know.”

Jerry does loosen his grip now, only a little, but enough to allow Dean room. He sits up slowly, careful not to jostle or push against where Jerry’s still a little sensitive. He holds his side and gently sweeps his thumb in a wide, soothing arc.

Jerry links his hands behind Dean’s neck. “You look handsome,” he says. It doesn’t sound like him. It’s his real voice, but softer, faraway.

“Yeah?” Dean strokes his damp brow.

“Mm.” Jerry wants to tell him that actually, truly, what he looks is beautiful, but he wonders if it might not be the time. He has to be so careful, think so hard, and when he’s hot and sticky and dazed, that seems more than a little unfair. He brings it on himself. He says it anyway, that Dean looks beautiful, and Dean laughs without making a sound and leans down very slowly and kisses his forehead.

 _You always look so gorgeous right after you come_ , he wants to say. He hardly knows if it’s true. He’s only seen him that way once or twice before. Sometimes it happens in the dark, and he has to be satisfied with just the heavy breathing, the hot thick smell. But here, and once before, there was light enough to see by. Artificial last time, but warm, a table lamp in a hotel room; this is better by far, Jerry thinks. Natural light suits Dean. As much as Jerry hates being a golf widow, he can’t deny how handsome Dean looks out on the green. And he is gorgeous here, all spent and warm and flushed, and suiting sunlight so well he might be the source of it. Jerry certainly thinks he is.

Jerry feels his mouth stretch into a woozy grin. “Sorry, bubbe,” he says.

Dean chuckles. “What’d you do?”

“You gotta take another shower.”

He shakes his head. _This kid_ , the gesture says. _What am I gonna do with this kid?_

 _Anything you want_ , he hopes his eyes say back. _Do anything you want._

He scoops him up now, brings him into his arms, hugs him with his whole body.

“I was lonesome,” Jerry says into his neck. Dean’s pulse thrums against his nose. “This morning, when you were gone.”

“Hm.” Dean strokes his back. “How about now?”

Jerry giggles and lazily bites his shoulder.

“Didn’t they feed you while I was gone?” Dean says, and then: “C’mon.” He climbs off the bed and helps Jerry, who’s still a little shaky, out of his clothes and into the bathroom.

**Author's Note:**

> Dean and Jerry's conversation at the beginning, plus Jerry's assessment of Dean when he's reading the comic book later on, are taken from the section on Dean Martin from Peter Bogdanovich's book _Who the Hell's In It_.


End file.
